Fairy Tale Endings
by BookwormKiwi
Summary: Overworked brains give sleepers dreams that they might not necessarily have had. Adventures of a fairy tale kind ensue. Various pairings.
1. Little Red Riding Hood

A/N: I know a lot of you don't like House being referred to as 'Greg'…truth be told, neither do I, but it's Stacy's dream, and she would.

Warning: Character death. But don't worry, he's fine in the end.

Disclaimer: I doubly disown this...the characters aren't mine, and neither is the plot! Well...a little bit's my work...

* * *

Stacy climbed into bed wearily. She had had a tough day. Mark was already asleep, lying on his side, his back to her. 

She leaned over him, and gave him a gentle kiss. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake.

Stacy lay down, closed her eyes, and was asleep within seconds.

AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa

"And how's Mark?"

Stacy was sitting at a table, with Dr Cameron taking things out of cupboards, in what seemed to be a small country cottage. She looked out the window, but couldn't see past the thick mass of tree trunks.

"Better," she answered, turning away from the window, "considering."

"Considering what?" Cameron asked, bringing a plate of cookies to the table and sitting down opposite Stacy.

"Well, Greg hates him," Stacy sighed, taking a cookie and chewing it carefully. Cameron nodded sympathetically.

"Well, I always thought that you shouldn't have gotten involved with him," Cameron murmured.

"With Mark?" Stacy said.

"No, Greg."

"What's wrong with Greg?" Stacy asked, then immediately wished she hadn't.

"Well," Cameron began, clearly picking her words carefully. "He's not-"

But Stacy never found out what Greg wasn't, as Cameron was interrupted by a shrill ring.

"It's mine," Cameron said, reaching for her cell phone. "Hello?"

There was short pause while Cameron listened to the speaker.

"Of course. She'll be right over."

Cameron hung up without saying goodbye, a trait she had no doubt learnt at the hospital.

"That was Mark," Cameron informed Stacy gravely. "He's feeling ill."

Stacy didn't find it strange that Mark had contacted Cameron instead of herself.

"What's the matter?" she asked worriedly.

"He thinks it's a cold." Stacy stopped worrying. Cameron motioned for Stacy to follow her, which she did.

"A cold?" Stacy echoed. Cameron narrowed her eyes at Stacy's tone.

"Yes, a cold," she said stiffly. "I'm sure you know how horrible it feels. I told him you'd take a basket of antibiotics."

"No you didn't. You didn't tell him on the phone."

"You were listening to my conversation?" Cameron said, coming across inappropriately shocked.

"You were right in front of me," Stacy laughed incredulously. Cameron looked absolutely horrified.

"The antibiotics?" Stacy asked slowly, trying to disrupt the tension.

With a haughty glance at Stacy, Cameron opened a drawer, which was filled with syringes. Stacy stared.

"You keep a drawer full of antibiotics?"

Cameron didn't reply, just took out a basket.

"That's ok, I'll use a carrier bag."

Cameron looked like she was going to argue, but she didn't. Instead, she opened the drawer beneath in, took out one of the many tied up plastic bags that occupied it, and threw in a few doses of antibiotics. Stacy had a burning desire to open the third and last drawer to find out what Cameron kept in there, but as she reached out her hand, Cameron slapped it back, and handed her the bag.

"Don't be nosy," she said reproachfully.

Reluctantly, Stacy left the drawer and it's unknown contents.

"Take the riding hood," Cameron instructed. "It's cold out."

Stacy didn't think so. It looked at least 100º.

"No, it's ok, Ill be-"

"Take the hood," Cameron repeated, glaring at Stacy, reminding Stacy scarily of her own mother. She nodded dumbly. Cameron's face relaxed into a smile.

"Good. And stay on the path, I've heard there are wild animals in the woods."

"Yes, _mother_," Stacy responded, though it didn't seem to have as much effect as she hoped it would. "I'll be fine."

She walked out to the front, and took the red riding hood from the coat stand by the door.

"Got the antibiotics, got the cloak, I'll stay on the path…can I _go now_?"

Cameron seemed to check Stacy over, and was apparently satisfied, as she nodded, smiling kindly, as if she'd just given permission to a three-year-old wanting to go outside and play.

"Be careful," Cameron warned, before shutting the door loudly, giving Stacy the unnerving impression that she'd just been kicked out of her home.

AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa

Stacy was right; it was warm out, so she didn't bother putting on the hood. She placed it in the carrier bag, atop the antibiotics.

Stacy walked along slowly, feeling the sun hit her face, and wishing she'd thought to bring sunscreen.

About 5 minutes later, Stacy reached the halfway mark, and had a sudden urge to step off the paved walkway, and into the dense woods.

Completely disregarding the feeble voice of Cameron in her mind, she did so. Stacy pushed through the trees for about 10 metres, until she came across a clearing with a small stream, and beside it, an apple tree. And beside _that_, and apple stall.

Stacy walked up to the stall, and was greeted by Chase.

"Hi, there, Little Red Riding Hood. Why aren't you wearing your beautiful riding hood today?"

Wondering what to make of the question, Stacy ignored it.

"How much are these apples?"

"73 dollars a kilo," Chase replied shortly. Stacy started.

"You think you'll sell any at that price?"

"Well, they're the best apples around. Hand picked," he added proudly. "From that there tree."

"Oh, so what would those apples cost?" Stacy asked, half-jokingly, pointing to the tree. Chase glanced curiously at Stacy.

"Well, they're free, of course."

Stacy's eyes flicked between Chase and the tree.

"So…why are you selling apples…right next to the tree from which I can pick them myself?" Stacy was talking slowly, trying to make sense of the prospect.

"They're the best apples around," he repeated. "Hand picked."

"…right. Well, I think I'll go with the second best apples around…cheaper, you know." Stacy reached up and plucked an apple from a low hanging branch.

"No problem. If you do decide taste the best apples around, I'll be right hear." Chase smiled. "Wanna know my secret?"

Stacy stopped eating to listen.

"Sure. Go on."

"They're hand picked," Chase said softly, looking around, as if checking to make sure no one heard him.

"Thanks for…sharing that with me," Stacy said, edging away. "I gotta go."

"See ya."

With a fleeting glance in Chase's direction, Stacy left, still chewing the apple.

As she neared the path again, something leapt out at her, and she let out a shriek, throwing the apple core at it.

"Ow!"

"Greg?"

"Well, they call me the Big Bad- ok, Greg sounds good."

Stacy shook her head.

"Cameron was right, there _are_ wild animals out here."

"Where are you off to, Little Red - you _are_ Little Red Riding Hood, aren't you? You're not wearing the hood."

Stacy didn't think she was, but everyone kept referring to her as Little Red Riding Hood, so perhaps she had missed something, and she was.

"Yeah," she surprised herself by saying. "That's me. But I also go by Stacy, which is a little shorter."

"Ok, Little Red Stacy, where are you going?"

This situation felt weirdly familiar, but Stacy couldn't quite place it.

"Mark," she replied. "He's sick."

"And where might Mark's house be?"

"Just 5 minutes down the path," Stacy told him, pointing, and wondering _why_ she was telling him. Something was advising her she shouldn't have, but she seemed to have lost all inhibitions. "I'm bringing him antibiotics."

"I can do it, if you like," House offered. Stacy went back over her thoughts, and decided that she hadn't lost _all_ inhibitions.

"No," she declined, not so politely. "I let you anywhere near Mark, you'll turn into Dr Death."

House looked slightly put out.

"Sure? I went to medical school, you know. I was top of my class before I dropped out."

"You dropped out of medical school?" Stacy gaped.

"Yeah, before I became a professional Big Bad - Greg. My name is Greg."

Stacy tried desperately to process all the new information; it didn't make any sense.

"Um…no. I'll be fine."

House breathed out, disappointed. Stacy almost felt sorry for him. But she didn't want Greg, Mark and injections all in the same room. Of course, the last time that happened, House saved Mark's life.

"I'd…better go," Stacy said, and began walking towards the path, and taking a left.

For the next 5 minutes, she just focussed on moving as quickly as possible to Mark's. She was beginning to get a feeling a tense apprehension compressing her chest.

Soon enough, she found herself at the door of another country cottage. She knocked gently. Nobody answered. She waited a little longer, then knocked harder.

"Is that Stacy?"

Mark's voice sounded rather high pitched and breathless.

"Yeah, it's me. Can I come in?"

"One moment!" the voice yelled urgently.

Again, Stacy didn't find this odd situation – she couldn't go into her husband's house without announcing her presence – odd.

Stacy waited a moment, then opened the door quietly.

"Hey," she called. "I've brought some antibiotics."

"Oh, uh…thanks." Stacy couldn't see Mark. She followed his voice into a bedroom.

"Hey," she said, going into the room. Mark had his back to her. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm just-" He cleared his throat, and his voice changed noticeably. "I'm holding up."

"Mark?" Stacy was growing suspicious. His voice was the tip-off, but now she thought about it, he was lying quite straight and stiff on his left, facing the wall, whereas Mark normally lay on his right, and he liked to curl his legs up to keep warm, he said.

But this man's stance was not unfamiliar.

"Greg?" she said disbelievingly.

There was a very pregnant pause for a few seconds, before-

"How could you say that?" he spat. "How could you mistake me for you old _boyfriend_?"

Before Stacy hastily apologised, she held her tongue for a moment, and considered it strange that that he hadn't turned to face her, so changed her mind, and went with her original assumption.

"Greg, stop playing games with me. Where's Mark?"

"I know you still love him, don't try and hide that." He sounded hurt now. "But you could at least _try_ to tell us apart."

Stacy slowed down the temp; she was beginning to have doubts. She approached the bed cautiously, afraid he – whether Greg or Mark – was going to lash out at her.

She stood over the figure, trying to decide whether she dared touch him. Stacy thought perhaps she did dare, and stretched out her hand, to please it on the man's back.

But before she could, she spotted the handle of a cane poking slightly out from under the bed.

"Greg, where's Mark?" Stacy demanded, a little more than somewhat angry.

"I told you not to-"

"Get up. Tell me where Mark is."

Greg obviously recognised the severity of her tone, as he turned slowly, and looked up at Stacy, clearly frightened. She was glaring at him steadily, her fists clenched in fury.

"Oh, relax. I put him in the closet."

Stacy narrowed her eyes, not sure whether to trust him or not. He jerked his head towards the closet doors.

"He really is in there."

Stacy stepped around the bed, keeping one eye on Greg. She opened the doors tentatively. Mark was lying, completely still, under the mass of heavy coats, hanging stiffly.

"Mark?" Stacy bent down quickly, shaking her husband vigorously.

"Mark!"

She turned around, shooting daggers at Greg.

"What did you do to him?" she asked, sharply spitting the words.

"Relax, he's fine. I just injected him with a powerful histamine. He's only…slightly dead."

"Dead?" Stacy screeched. "Dead! Fix him!"

"I…can't," Greg said, breathing out warily through his nose. "I don't have the anti-histamine on me."

"You-" Stacy didn't finish what she was going to say, not knowing what she _would_ have said, had she the chance. She was panicking; she didn't know what to do. Should she kill Greg now, then get help for Mark, or get help first, and then kill Greg? Hard decision. There was one option left while she made up her mind: stall.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she yelled at Greg, while her mind ticked over in overdrive. "What drove you to _complete_ insanity?"

"You were incapable of making a choice between us."

Greg sat up, and got painfully out of bed. Not bothering with his cane, he limped over to Stacy.

"I've just made that easier."

He went to put his arms around Stacy, but she sidestepped him.

"By hell, you've made it easier. I can't love a murderer."

She realised that her face was wet, and her vision blurred, and she wiped furiously at her eyes. She had to help Mark.

Knowing that Greg wouldn't attempt to follow her or, even if he did, she could easily outrun him (which made her stop for a moment and wonder how Greg got to Mark's house before she did) she ran from the room.

"Help!" she sobbed. "Somebody help!"

From out of nowhere, somebody came to help.

She hated that she was breaking down – right in front of someone else, no less - but her husband _had_ just been murdered, so she rather felt she deserved to be able to.

"What's up?"

"Foreman!" Stacy cried. "Mark's dead. I need you to revive him."

"Stacy," Foreman said gently, "if he's been dead for a while, there's no reviving him."

She ignored him, and tugged him inside.

"Anti-histamine," she gasped. "Give him some."

"He had an allergic reaction? To what?" Foreman asked seriously. "Where is he?"

Stacy pulled him into the bedroom.

"House?" Foreman stopped moving. "What's are you-"

"Mark!" Stacy interrupted impatiently, and Foreman stopped quizzing Greg to inspecting Mark.

"Not breathing," he observing. He put his forefingers on Mark's neck. "No pulse."

"Do something!" Stacy cried hysterically. "Give him the anti-histamine!"

"Are you _sure_ he needs-"

"YES!"

Foreman quickly pulled out a syringe, and jabbed it into Mark's arm. Stacy held her breath. Nothing happened.

"Is he going to die?" she whispered.

"Technically, he's already dead."

"You shut up."

Foreman listened in the background, kneeling by Mark.

"I got a pulse," he announced after a moment. "O2 stats dropping, BP declining."

"How can you tell?" Stacy asked curiously. "He's not hooked to a machine."

"I don't know, it's what doctors say."

Stacy thought about this, then decided it wasn't worth thinking about.

"Is he breathing?"

"Nope," Foreman stated simply. Stacy had had enough of Foreman. She pushed him roughly aside, and fell down beside Mark.

Stacy didn't pay too much attention when she learnt EAR in grade 8, but she tried to recall a few tips.

"Breathe," she muttered to herself. "Once every 4…4 what's? What is heart beats or seconds? Damn it, I can't remember! I give up. Foreman, get down here."

"He's dead. There's no point-"

"Greg! Please?"

It looked like he took a moment to decide whether or not to revive the guy he just killed.

"Help me now, and I won't kill you," Stacy offered, in her way of a truce.

House probably realised what an excellent deal this was, as he crouched down stiffly.

Stacy watched him fearfully, clutching Foreman's arm tightly. Foreman was shaking his head sceptically. The next minute felt like an hour. After a while, Stacy noticed Mark give a slight shudder, and immediately dropped down next to him.

"Can you hear me?" House asked, over-pronouncing his words. "Open your eyes."

At that, Mark's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open.

"What's your name?" Mark didn't reply, but Stacy didn't expect him to. Greg took Mark's hand.

"Squeeze my hand." His hand stayed unsqueezed.

"Come on, Mark," Stacy willed him, resting her head on his shoulder. And, just like in all those clichés, Mark responded to that. His hand wobbled as he raised it, placing it gently on the back of Stacy's head.

Stacy started. She laughed in relief, and tried to get rid of the tears that had appeared uninvited as she hugged her husband.

After she made sure that he was definitely alright, Stacy left Mark's arms and, although still considering murdering him, she hugged Greg.

Foreman was ignored.

"Thanks, Greg," Stacy mumbled, feeling uncomfortably comfortable with him.

"Stacy," Mark said sharply from the floor, and she unwillingly left Greg to kneel by Mark again.

"You ok?" she asked, stroking his face.

"I suppose," Mark said sulkily. "Considering."

"Considering what?" Stacy queried, though hardly listening to him.

"Consider a crazed maniac just killed me, then revived me on the orders of his old girlfriend!"

Mark was yelling now.

"Shh," Stacy soothed. "He only – how did you know it was on my orders?"

Mark looked confused.

"I mean, you were unconscious."

"Actually, he was dead," Greg piped up, and Stacy glared at him, which shut him up.

"I…don't know," mark said. "I guess I just assumed."

"Too bad, you assumed right."

"Greg, shut up," Stacy said through gritted teeth, not looking at him. Mark sat up, holding his head.

"Maybe you shouldn't-" Stacy began.

"I'm fine," he sniffed. "But I've still got my cold.

"Oh, I…brought you antibiotics." Stacy went to pick up the bag, and brought it over for Mark.

"Here, this might help." Stacy took out a syringe. She took Mark's arm, and jabbed it in.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"You did it wrong."

"Ok, Greg, _you_ do it," Stacy said irritably.

"No, no, no, I DON'T think so!"

"Come on, Mark, just a little jab."

"He just KILLED me, and you're going to trust him with me?"

_Good point_, Stacy thought, but she wasn't about to say that.

"He also saved your life."

"Which wouldn't have needed saving if he hadn't killed me first!"

_Very true._

"Do you want to get rid of the cold?"

Mark nodded.

"Then _trust him_."

"A little hard to do when-"

"Greg, just do it."

Greg did it.

"Ow!"

"Whoops, wrong spot."

"Hey!"

"Sorry."

Jab.

"Ow!"

"You should thank me."

"Why should I _thank_ you?"

"I saved you-"

"Greg!" Stacy had had enough of their bickering. "Let's-"

"Call the police?" Mark inserted, his cold mysteriously gone. "Excellent idea."

"I wasn't going to-" Stacy tried.

"We should," put in Foreman, who was getting sick of being ignored.

"_Thank_you," Mark said, taking the comment, using it to his benefit, then going back to ignoring him again.

"I don't' think we need to go that far," Stacy spoke out. "It's really-"

But Mark was having none of it. He pulled out a cell phone and dialled 911 before Stacy could stop him.

"Police, please," Mark said into the phone.

"I have a murder in my house."

"I'm not a murder," Greg protested. "You're not dead."

"I _was_. And if Stacy hadn't come, I still would be."

He seemed to have forgotten he was on the phone.

"No, no, I didn't say I was a murderer. I was talking to him."

The person on the other end must have asked who 'him' was, as Mark replied,

"My murderer."

There was a pause. Everyone in the room was listening to Mark.

"Yes, I _know_ I'm not dead," he said touchily. "But I was. _No_, I'm not hysterical.

"Yes, that's right.

"My wife went for help.

"Yes, a doctor.

"I don't know what he did, I was _dead_.

"I have no idea!"

Mark put his hand over the mouthpiece, and addressed House.

"Why aren't you running?"

Greg shrugged.

"No point. I'm not a murderer."

Nobody bothered to correct him.

"And he can't," Stacy added, eyeing his leg.

"He says he's not a murderer," Mark related into the phone. "I…don't know."

He turned to the group again.

"What's the address of this place?"

"Little house in the woods," Greg said.

"Little house in the woods," Stacy echoed, turning to Greg suspiciously.

"Little house in the woods," Mark repeated. "Oh, good. Yeah, I'll keep him here. He won't go far."

Mark hung up, also before bidding goodbye. So maybe the hospital wasn't the only place that taught that habit.

"They're coming," he informed them. And come they did. They took Greg away, but no without a fight…argument.

"I'm _not_ a murderer."

"Could you come with us, sir?"

"He's _alive_."

"We can discuss this at the station."

"I saved his life."

"This will be easier if you co-operate, sir."

Greg finally realised that they'd probably listen to him more when they weren't trying to drag him away.

So Stacy and Mark stopped ignoring Foreman and sat down at the table with him and Chase, who had appeared at Mark's front door after hearing about Greg's arrest ("Wow, news travels fast around here." "I get a lot of customers. I've got-" "The best apples around, I know." "Want to know-" "No.") and a large mug of coffee each.

"Well," Stacy said. "That was exciting."

"Exciting wouldn't be the word I'd use," Mark said, taking a mouthful of his drink.

"What exactly happened?" Chase asked curiously.

"You don't want to know," Mark assured him, sounding slightly stoned.

"What are you drinking?" Stacy asked suspiciously.

"Coffee," Mark said defensively, clutching his mug to his chest protectively. Stacy raised an eyebrow, telling him she didn't believe him, but she didn't bother trying to take it away.

_The poor guy was killed and revived in the last half an hour_, she reasoned, _let him have his fun._

Stacy, personally, couldn't see what was fun in getting drunk, but each to their own.

Draining her mug, Stacy stood up, and stretched.

"I'd better get going."

She felt a tap on her back, and spun around. Upon finding nobody, Stacy frowned. She felt another tap, this time on her left shoulder. Again, she saw no one when she turned, at least, no one that could have touched her. She was receiving very strange looks from her three companions.

"Someone…" Stacy squinted in their direction, feeling rather vulnerable.

She shook her head, and shut her eyes.

AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa

When she opened them again, she wasn't with Chase and Foreman in a little log cabin, but in her bed, with Mark standing over her, prodding her gently.

"It's almost 8," he said.

"Oh, shoot." She pushed the bed sheets off her legs hurriedly.

"What were you dreaming about?" Mark asked. "You were moving around a bit."

"I don't remember," Stacy said truthfully, making her way quickly towards the bathroom. "Something in a wood, I think. And apples. There were lots of apples."

* * *

A/N: None of these medical references are true. I don't think. Specifically, I don't think you can kill someone with a histamine. And you most certainly can't revive them with an anti-histamine. So. You know. Stacy wouldn't know that, and it's _her_ dream. Unfortunately, over the next few chapters I might have to make it more realistic. Hmm. 

How was that? Next chapter is Cameron, starring in 'The Frog Prince'. That should be fun. :)


	2. The Frog Prince

The Frog Prince - Cameron's Dream

A/N: Thanks to house-of-insanity for a brilliant beta-ing job. Also to housefan53, for beta-ing as well.

* * *

Cameron was exhausted. House had overworked them today. She'd never run so many gels in one go. Climbing wearily into bed, she promptly fell asleep.

* * *

"Differential diagnosis?" House prodded Cameron in the back as he limped past her.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't listening," Cameron said, raising her head.

"I know. I don't want to repeat it. You can go."

"What?"

"Take a walk; it's a nice day."

Cameron looked out the window. It did, indeed, look like a nice day. The sun was shining unusually brightly.

"Fine." Cameron stood up. Although feeling annoyed that House was kicking her out of the office, she appreciated the chance of taking a break.

"Where's Chase?" she asked, looking around the room.

"Don't know," House replied, sitting down heavily at his desk, seemingly unconcerned. "Hasn't been in for a few days."

"Has he called?" Cameron followed House into his office, hands on her hips. "Is he sick?"

"I have no idea," House responded, reaching for his ball. He tossed it up, caught it, then gave Cameron a pointed look, but she didn't budge. House hung his head and offered Cameron the ball.

"Go outside and play," he said, and when she glared at him furiously, he added, "I'll call Chase."

Cameron narrowed his eyes and snatched the ball from him.

"Good girl. Be back in half an hour."

-0-0-0-

As much as she hated to admit it, it was quite pleasant out. The temperature was beautiful to be in.

Cameron walked along, quite content, humming softly. She glanced down at the ball in her hand, and wondered vaguely why she had taken it from House. She knew no one she passed, but they all took time to say hello, and she smiled a response.

Cameron finally came to a stop about 10 minutes later at a small body of water. She checked her watch and decided she could sit down for a while before heading back, to stay within her given time limit.

Cameron leant against the trunk of a shady tree, which shielded her from the direct sunlight, but had leaves sparse enough to allow its warmth filter through. Unconsciously, Cameron weighed up the ball in her hand while her eyes measured the distance over the pond. After a moment of quick calculations, she figured that if she threw it, it would land just long of the bank on the other side, then it would most likely roll a bit into the shrubs.

Again checking the time, Cameron judged she had enough time to test her predictions.

Wasn't even close, she discovered, grimacing when it landed right in the middle of the water.

"Oh-" She shut her mouth quickly, to avoid uttering any obscenities that might be expelled, once she realised that she had just lost House's ball.

She didn't think the toy meant much to House, but he would easily use the excuse to make her life miserable for a while.

Cameron jogged along the path that circled the pond, tight and tense. She peered out into the water and briefly considered wading out to retrieve it. She even thought of using something, a tree branch, perhaps, to try and fish it out.

Seeing no available options, Cameron didn't quite shut her mouth in time.

"Cameron?"

Cameron, at first, didn't hear the voice, too busy worrying what House would say.

"Cameron," the voice said again, more insistently. Cameron looked around, but saw no one.

"Down here."

Cameron was confused. The only things around her were a large bird, which eyed her beadily and flew away, a few lost-looking ants, and a large bullfrog. Otherwise, there were no animate objects about.

"Why are you swearing, Cameron?"

Cameron might have asked the frog how it knew her name if she hadn't been so shocked. Noticing her wide eyes, the frog sighed exasperatedly.

"Oh, here we go."

"How can you-"

"Long story. Moving on. Why are you swearing?"

"But why-"

"I asked first," the frog stated, and if Cameron hadn't still been staring at it in astonishment, she may have found it slightly obnoxious.

"I-" Cameron hesitated momentarily, realising that she was about to tell a frog her current worries.

"I threw my boss' ball into the pond. And I know that sounds like nothing, but you don't know my-"

"Ah," said the frog. "You'd be in a bit of trouble. I'll get it. Wait here."

Before Cameron could say anything, the frog had thrown itself into the water, and she watched the ripples it made as it swam towards the middle, then disappeared from view.

Cameron stood with bated breath, still puzzled by this mystery. She went over the string of events. A frog had greeted her, listened to her whine, and told her to wait while he saved the drowned ball.

No, she shook her head, she couldn't make any sense of it whatsoever.

There was something spookily familiar about the frog, but Cameron couldn't quite place it.

"I'm back," came a voice from below, though Cameron had already been warned of its arrival by the cool wet patch it had made when it hopped up onto her foot.

Even in this crazy situation, Cameron found her manners.

"That was quick," she remarked politely. "You must be a good swimmer."

"Thanks," said the frog, taking her compliment in its stride. "I swam a lot when I was younger. The whole country did, really."

It obviously wasn't aware that it had said anything out of the ordinary. Cameron picked up the dripping ball with two fingers, taking in the mud and weeds that clung to it.

"Well, thank you for that," Cameron said. "I'd better go."

"Wait," the frog called as she stepped away. Cameron stopped, sighed inwardly, knowing she was going to be at least 10 minutes late, and turned around with a strained smiled.

"Yes?"

"Can I come with you?"

Cameron narrowed her eyes.

"Come with me where?"

"To your boss."

Cameron laughed. "Trust me, you don't want-"

"Trust _me_," the frog interrupted. "I do."

Cameron made a quick decision and, scared of the prospect of appearing rude, she bent down, making a face, and picked up the frog in her other hand.

"Sit tight," she murmured, but flinched when the frog dug its claws into her palm.

They travelled slowly, Cameron not wanting to run in fear of dropping the creature. She forced herself to talk to it while they walked.

"How long have you been living by the pond?" she asked it, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Not long," it replied shortly, clearly not wanting to _tell_ her the answer.

"Do you move around a lot, then?"

"Not much."

Cameron took the lack of response as a hint to stop talking, so they completed the journey in silence.

As they neared the hospital – a good hour after Cameron had set out – Cameron thanked the frog once again.

"I can't give House another reason to torment me."

"What do you mean, another reason?" the frog croaked. "He doesn't torture you nearly as much as- …you're a good doctor, he shouldn't-"

Cameron stopped moving.

"How do you know I'm a good doctor?" she demanded. "In fact, how do you know I'm a doctor?"

The frog hesitated a moment, thinking over its answer.

"Well, the first clue was that we're in front of a hospital. Also, you work for Dr House. You've got to be good to work with him."

For some reason, it puffed its chest out proudly.

"You know Dr House?" Cameron was surprised. She knew House was well known throughout the hospital, but being famous to the point where even animals knew him was just amazing. Of course, Cameron doubted that any other animals had ever heard of him.

"Who doesn't know Dr House?"

"Most frogs I know," Cameron replied under her breath.

Cameron took the elevator, too tired to attempt the stairs. When she reached her floor, she took a right instead of the usual left.

"Where are we going?" it asked suspiciously.

"Um…" How did it know she wasn't going to the office? "I thought you could camp out in the bathroom."

"Why can't I come with you?"

"I don't think Dr House will appreciate me bringing a frog into the office."

"I can handle it," the frog said, pulling itself up to its full height. Which wasn't very tall.

"You don't know House."

"I think I- the men's is over there."

"I know," Cameron said, glancing over, then pushing open the door to the female's bathroom. "But I can't go in there."

The frog's eyes flicked nervously around the room. Cameron smirked.

"There's no one here. Hide in the corner."

The frog nodded slowly. Cameron placed the frog gently on the floor.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she told the animal. "Just sit tight, okay?"

The frog didn't reply.

She left the bathroom, smiling at Cuddy, who was going in. As the door swung shut behind her, she thought she heard a somewhat desperate croak.

-0-0-0-

Cameron entered the office, trying to be as discreet as possible. House had his back to her, but when she sat next to Foreman, who looked questioningly at her, House turned around, making a big show of looking at his watch.

"You're late," he stated.

"I know, I'm sorry, I…lost track of time," she lied. She was not willing to share the knowledge that there was a talking frog in the women's bathroom. House would say she was going crazy. Maybe she _was_ going crazy.

"Did you call Chase?"

"Yeah, no one answered."

"What?"

"I said, no one-"

"I heard you," she interrupted him impatiently. "Why aren't you worried?"

"Why are _you_?" he asked, and when she glowered at him, he said, "Because it's Chase. He's probably not sensible enough to have put a phone next to his bed."

Cameron opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she heard a small noise. It sounded…wet, if noises can sound wet. It got gradually louder, until it came to a stop, ostensibly right outside the office. The curtains were drawn, and she couldn't see through the normally transparent glass walls.

The three doctors heard a knock. House made to move towards the door, but Cameron stood suddenly.

"Let me," she requested and, while confused, House let her.

Cameron wandered casually over to the door, smiling innocently as House and Foreman followed her with their eyes.

As she expected, the frog was sitting patiently in the middle of the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, carefully to keep her voice down.

"I want to come in," it told her.

"I think that might not be a good idea"

"Who is it, Cameron?" House asked. "A patient?"

"No, it's a frog," Cameron said scathingly, hoping House would leave her alone.

"Seriously?" came Foreman's puzzled tone to which Cameron responded with a withering look, while subtly shutting the door.

Sliding into her seat, she attempted a carefree expression.

"Who was that?" House asked again, inclining his head towards the door to show her, unnecessarily, what he was talking about.

"No one important," she said brightly, as another knock resounded through the room. Cameron didn't move.

"You gonna get that?" House said, staring unblinkingly at her. She could see he was curious.

"No," was her short reply.

"Who was that?" he repeated, and his tone demanded an answer.

"Just a frog," she said nonchalantly. Foreman obviously decided that it was time to give his input.

"Just a frog?" he echoed. "What do you mean, a frog? What kind of frog?"

"A _frog_ frog!" Cameron exploded, pushing her chair back roughly and standing up. "An ugly, brown, bull frog."

She strode defiantly over to the door, wrenched it open, and scooped up the frog, which let out a startled squeak. Cameron thrust her cupped hands under Foreman's nose, breathing hard.

"See?"

Foreman had shrunk back, terrified that Cameron might throw it at him or something. He gave a slow nod. "I see."

Now that she was in this position, Cameron wasn't entirely sure how to accurately end her scene. She held her hand just above the tabletop, and let the frog slide off. She prayed it wouldn't talk.

"Glad you changed your mind, Cameron."

If Cameron could have harmlessly banged her head against a wall for a few minutes, she would have gladly done so. As it was, she quite liked her brain cells, and thought it was better she didn't give in to her desire.

"Cameron…" Foreman started cautiously. "It's talking."

"Long story," the frog said, at the same time Cameron requested, "Don't ask."

House gave the frog an odd look, as if trying to figure out something, then took his usual place in front of the whiteboard, marker ready to write. Foreman looked politely bewildered, and the frog gazed steadily at Cameron.

"So, who are we working on?" the frog enquired.

"First of all," Cameron cut in, before either House or Foreman could speak, "'we' does not include you. Second of all-"

"Why not?" the frog asked indignantly. "I can-"

"You need a medical license to practice medicine," Cameron explained aggressively.

"How do you know I don't-"

"Because you need to go to _college_ to study _medicine_ so you can get a _license_," she said, stressing a few choice words. "And since I last heard, they don't accept animals in lessons!"

The frog kept quiet, maybe because he could see how much he was upsetting Cameron, who really wasn't sure _why_ she was so close to tears.

"Second of all," she continued quietly, "we have no patient."

At this, she turned to House for confirmation.

"No," he agreed. "We don't."

Cameron looked back at the frog triumphantly, which hung its head silently. Cameron's breaths had become more shallow and rapid, and she felt slightly faint as she stood, arms crossed.

"Sit down," House ordered her, noticing her sway unstably. She obliged without complaint.

"Ok. Differential diagnosis?" House said, his eyes fixed on the frog.

"I thought you said we didn't have a patient."

Cameron glared at it as it uttered the word 'we', and House gave a small sliver of a smile.

"We didn't. Then you turned up. Now we do. Differential for a talking frog."

"Can we drop this topic?" Cameron entreated angrily, though the frog looked mildly bored.

"Why are you here?" Foreman asked, and it was clear by his expression that it wouldn't be the last question.

"Why not?" the frog responded, and before Foreman could repeat the inquiry, it added, "Next question."

"What kind of relationship do you two have?" Foreman probed. When he was met with shocked silence, Foreman hastily reworded his question.

"I mean, how do you know each other?"

"We…met," Cameron said non-descriptively. "A while ago. Let's focus on…"

She was going to finish her sentence with 'the patient', forgetting for a moment that they didn't _have_ a patient.

"But how can you talk?" Foreman asked the long-awaited question.

"I told you, long story, you don't want to hear it."

Foreman looked very much like he _did_ want to hear it, but wisely said nothing.

"Why are you here?" House put forward Foreman's first question in an attempt to get an answer. The frog opened its mouth, and Cameron shot it a look, warning it not to tell the real story.

"I rescued your ball," the frog declared nobly. Cameron felt more compelled than ever to let her skull connect with a wall.

"My ball needed rescuing?" House said.

"Cameron threw it into the pond."

At its words, House rounded on Cameron. He opened his mouth, probably to censure her strongly, but Cameron got in first.

"But it's right here," she tried. "It's safe, it's fine. It's all good. It's-"

"-wet. And muddy. And-" With each word, he advanced a step towards her.

"I was hoping you wouldn't mind so much," Cameron mumbled.

"Oh, but you know me too well."

Cameron, long ago, learnt not to feel frightened every time House approached her menacingly, but this time, she couldn't help it.

Suddenly, she felt a nudge, just above her elbow. Looking down, she caught sight of the frog trying to clamber up her arm.

"Climbing is for tree frogs," she sibilated, slightly annoyed. "Quit it."

"It's 5 o'clock," the frog told her. "You can go."

Cameron silently thanked the frog, deciding that this made up for all the times he had spoken the word 'we', and quickly backed away from House towards the door.

"I'm going home," she whimpered and, with the frog clinging desperately to her fingers, she fled from the room.

"Let's get out of here," she muttered to the frog, and they left the building with great speed.

-0-0-0-

That night, Cameron was made uncomfortable throughout by the presence of the frog, which talked non-stop, sounding way too familiar for her to forget. When she got ready for bed, the frog hopped up her leg, and she shivered at the touch of it.

"Can I sleep with you?" it asked, turning its unnerving eyes upon her.

Cameron started violently, dropping her toothbrush, which clattered in the sink.

"No," she uttered instinctively, before she thought about what the frog was asking exactly. She spat out a mouthful of toothpaste to reassess the question when the frog looked up mournfully at her.

"Do you want to sleep in my room?"

"Aw, can't I sleep in the bed?" it whined, reminding Cameron strongly a very young child.

"No," she said, this time more firmly. She shuddered at the thought of sharing her bed with a frog.

"Ple-"

"No." The word was out of her mouth before it had even finished its plea.

"Come on," it persisted.

"No."

"I-"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" she sighed. She felt guilty, and almost sorry for the poor creature. "You can have the one in the spare room."

It seemed a bit silly to offer the frog a whole bed, but it eased her conscience, even though the frog looked disappointed.

When she finished rinsing her mouth, she lightly picked up the frog in one hand, and her glass of water in the other. For whatever reason, the frog was shivering. Perhaps it was cold.

The short walk down the hall had never felt longer. The silence was more uncomfortable than Cameron had experienced.

This frog had the power, Cameron believed, to make anything she said seem awkward or silly. But when she didn't say anything, that felt less than pleasant as well.

"Will you be warm enough?" she asked it, setting it down on the edge of the bed. Looking across at the expanse of the quilt, the frog nodded reassuringly.

"I'll be…right."

Cameron mirrored his nod, though perhaps not so firmly, and tried not to feel repentant for leaving him. She was afraid he wouldn't resurface from the mass of sheets. He was rather small, compared to the bed.

"Sleep well," she bade him, and she left he room, closing the door quietly, and flicking the light switch.

She switched her earrings to sleepers, peering into the bathroom mirror, wondering how her day had become so weird. Feeling rather strange, she started to change her clothes, readying herself for bed.

"I can't sleep."

Cameron jumped, drawing in a sharp breath of air. She spun around, looking down, knowing what sight was going to greet her.

"How long have you been sitting there?" she asked self-consciously, clutching the shirt she hadn't quite pulled over her head yet to her chest.

"Not…long," it said vaguely, then, after seeing her face, added hastily, "I didn't see…much."

'Much' was not really the word Cameron wanted to hear, but it didn't look like she was getting any other answer.

"What do you want?" she asked roughly, trying to remind herself that it was just a frog.

"Sure I can't sleep with-"

"Oh, for God's sake." Cameron threw her shirt on unabashedly, and scooped up the little frog. She stormed down the hallway, back to the spare room.

"Go to sleep," she said forcefully, putting the frog down, none too gently, on the mattress.

She went back to her own room irritably, and climbed into bed. The light was off, and Cameron soon went to sleep.

* * *

Cameron awoke the next morning, and was faced, when she opened her eyes, with a brown ball, curled up right under her nose. She shrieked, and leapt back, forgetting it wasn't such a good idea to do that when you're lying on the edge of a bed, and landed on the floor with a loud crash.

Picking herself up gingerly, she went to see what the object was, and was most annoyed when she saw the frog.

"What are you doing here?" she asked it crossly. She stood up, trying to catch her breath.

"I told you," it replied, opening an eye sleepily, "I couldn't sleep in the other room."

"You should have tried harder," she complained, then a bit quieter, appended, "You gave me a fright."

"I could hear," the frog said derisively. The frog pulled a face fleetingly, then brightened up. "What's for breakfast?"

Cameron had quickly used up all her patience and tolerance on the frog, and she thought that she had better do something about it.

"Look…frog," she said, not entirely sure how to address it, but it hadn't given her any clue to what its name might be. "Are you going to go back home today?"

The question came out rather more forceful than she had intended, and the frog looked slightly hurt.

"You don't want me-"

Cameron sighed, and tried to make amends. "It's just a bit inconvenient."

There was silence. Then-

"Ok, I'll go. I'll come with you to the hospital, and then I can make my way back to where you found me."

Cameron was surprised it was so willing to comply.

Eager to get rid of the creature, she skipped breakfast, telling the frog she wasn't hungry, and that she didn't have any insects for it anyway (although she wasn't sure if it was her imagination, or the frog really did look fairly disgusted at the mention of flies).

-0-0-0-

"I do have on last request before I go," the frog said when they stepped out into the hospital car park. Cameron groaned inwardly.

"You owe me, anyway."

"I took you in last night," she pointed out. "AND you slept with me."

She paused, realising how that sounded, but shook it off.

"You saw House's reaction yesterday," the frog protested. "Imagine how much worse it would have been if you hadn't brought the ball back."

Cameron imagined. She suddenly felt very grateful towards the frog.

"Fine," she sighed. "What's your…final request?"

"One kiss."

Cameron started. This was worse than asking her to sleep with him.

"No," she laughed incredulously. "No, not-"

"Please. It's really important."

"I don't see how me _kissing_ you is really important." She said the words with distaste.

"Just trust me, it's-"

"You know, last time you said that, I shouldn't have."

The frog hung its head.

"Of course," it said sorrowfully. "Of course you wouldn't…I didn't think…"

It looked so sad, that Cameron instantly gave in, even though she found the thought repulsive.

"Ok. Come here. Make it quick."

The frog brightened considerably, and moved towards Cameron. She picked it up reluctantly, and held it up to her face.

_Here goes nothing_, Cameron thought, and put her lips to its. She shuddered when it put its front legs up to her cheeks.

It seemed to go on; the frog gripping tightly. She closed her eyes, wishing it would stop.

And then she felt lighter, somehow. She opened her eyes, and shrieked for the second time that day.

The frog had disappeared; instead, previously kissing her, was Chase.

"Don't be scared," Chase instructed quickly. "I can explain."

Cameron was taking short, shallow breaths, fighting the urge to scream.

"I was trying to make something in the lab for my cough. I must have dropped in something I wasn't supposed to. It happened slowly. Remember, about a week ago, I kept dropping things, and you kept calling me butterfingers? I was getting scared, then, because my fingers were webbed. And a couple of days back, you mentioned I looked a bit green. That's because…I was."

Cameron's hands had come up to her open mouth to prevent any loud noises from escaping. Chase gave her a minute to calm down and accept, which she did, slowly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice still not quite steady.

"I though…" Chase his head sheepishly, blushing lightly. "I thought you wouldn't kiss me."

Cameron was shocked, though almost flattered.

"You thought I'd rather kiss a frog than you?"

Chase didn't reply. He didn't look her in the eye. Cameron called his name, which made him look up.

"Chase? You really thought that?"

He seemed all ready to deny it, but in the end, uttered a simple, "Yeah."

Cameron smiled.

"Let me show you something."

Chase eyed her curiously. She took his face tenderly, and kissed him sweetly. She stepped back too quickly for Chase to react, and gazed at him, positively beaming.

"All you had to do was ask."

* * *

Cameron opened her eyes lazily, disappointed that she had woken. She had had a particularly pleasant dream and, although she couldn't recall all the details, she had the main points embedded firmly in her mind. She got up, and went about her morning tasks, smiling.

* * *

A/N: Credit to a friend (JapaneseGeishaDoll) who utters the line "No, it's a frog" too many times not to be annoying. It's used, normally (for those who don't know), sarcastically, when some asks an obvious question. Eg: "Is that your mum?" "No, it's a frog."

But she loves it so much; she uses it in irrelevant cases as well.

Eg: "Are you coming with us?" "No, I'm a frog."

Anyway.


End file.
